


Plums for My Bride

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Clothed Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Filthy, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Love Bites, M/M, Manhandling, Naked Male Clothed Male, Neck Kissing, No Angst, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Rough Sex, Scratching, Smut, Smut 4 Smut Treat, Snark, Wet & Messy, Wet Clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23734582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier meet once again after a winter apart. One of many meetings.His hair is curling at the edges, wet-darkened to a deep blue-black at the ends from the heat and the water and the steam. The heat pinks his skin in waves. He looks relaxed. Careless.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 516
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	Plums for My Bride

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anticyclone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticyclone/gifts).



> Title from "Wedding Promises" by Echo's Children.
> 
> ETA 04/26/2020: [my tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)

They last saw each other the day after the first snowfall of the year. Parting ways for the winter is now close to tradition, if one can call it that when they've only known each other for two years now. For witchers, essentially nothing. Even for humans it must not count for much, a couple of years, barely anything when one is young still.

But Jaskier is not untried. Geralt has... _tried_ him. Their evening is shaping up towards that once more, in fact, judging by the way Jaskier's legs part in the bath when Geralt steps into their room, closes and locks the door behind him with nimble movements which belie the itch beneath his skin, one hand already tugging at his armour in barely concealed impatience.

They ran into each other hours before, after months apart, Jaskier offering up his room at a rundown but clean inn nearby the tavern where Geralt took possession of a good chunk of coin for services rendered. Days are getting longer and warmer, yet undoubtedly busier. Not at their busiest just yet, but close. Welcomed though this may be where his purse is concerned, might as well enjoy the calm while it lasts.

Armour finally off and leaving him in a thin dark shirt and trousers, Geralt turns to watch Jaskier's palms soaping his own arms, down his chest, quickly wiping his brow of stray bubbles before leaning back against the tub's edge, submerged to his armpits.

His hair is curling at the edges, wet-darkened to a deep blue-black at the ends from the heat and the water and the steam. The heat pinks his skin in waves. He looks relaxed. Careless. Or merely carefree. His shoulders are loose, nipples peaked with gooseflesh in the leftover chill of the room when he shifts and rises above the water, which laps just below his waist. Whorls of thick hair on his stomach lead Geralt's view to a pretty cock whose head is just rising from beneath the water and which he's had the pleasure of enjoying before. Not in months, though, and his mouth waters only a little at the sight, the fattening head and delicate foreskin slowly retracting to reveal more as it hardens further.

"Comfortable?" he inquires, a little gruff, one eyebrow cocked.

Stretching more than a little luxuriantly, Jaskier says on a breathy exhale, "I haven't surveyed the entire establishment, but, for my part, ra- _ther_ ," eyes half-closing, mouth parting to show the pink tip of his tongue, all big cat with cream still lingering at its whiskers.

Geralt snorts, amused against his will, and feels his cock give a mild twitch inside his britches. Toeing his boots off is an exercise in advanced balancing when his gaze persists in staying on Jaskier, narrow-eyed and unblinking, as if it were a thing outside of his control, a limb gone limp with disuse now regaining sensation with a mind all of its own.

Staring incessantly does not aid with cooling his body in any way whatsoever. He adjusts his trousers to relieve some pressure on his sensitive cockhead while Jaskier watches him indolently. Leaning a little forward, back arching, shoulders back, Jaskier's expression becomes intent for an instant, eyes sharp. He doesn't beckon him closer in any obvious way. His legs slowly part even more, and he throws his calves over the edges of the tub, invitation enough. A quiet glint of inward satisfaction at the surface, however, quickly dissipates to reveal a jittery quality to his limbs where they hang off the sides of the tub. He reclines once more, a tremble passing up and down his body.

A spring wind surges outside the window, a scrolling pattern of leaves and branches knocking at the glass. Geralt barely notices it.

He leaves the door to walk farther into the room and approach the tub, projecting clear amusement on his face. He refrains from rolling his eyes at the display before him only because Jaskier's eyes are at half-mast and trained to the side. However, as Geralt comes near enough to hover over him, his right hand, which has been hanging passively over the edge, snaps forward, quick as a snake, to latch onto one loose sleeve. Drags him foolishly _into_ the tub, water spilling from the sides, Geralt's clothes drenched, and he giggles. Jaskier _giggles_ —a flighty, silly little sound; a sound which rattles around inside Geralt's head, fills his thoughts up oddly.

Sucking in a breath, Jaskier sticks his chest out while coiling inside the tub to make space for Geralt's body, although his legs remain splayed. Red spots appear on his cheekbones, starker than the flush already present across his face. He brushes his palms upwards along the shoulders of Geralt's shirt, arms loosely encircling his neck before Geralt has a chance to move away.

Getting his knees underneath him, one hand grasping at the tub's edge, he considers rising to his feet and walking out of the water. This nonsense of his should not be encouraged. Legs rise around his torso and cling to his hips, fingers lifting to his head to scratch behind his ears, and Geralt settles more firmly against him. Jaskier's head tips back, and Geralt dips his head forward. Nosing at his neck, his lips catch on a lavender-scented water drop. Only Jaskier would ask for lavender sprigs in his hot water. Licks at the skin there anyway.

Instantly, Jaskier's arching into it, therefore Geralt must better plant his mouth there, to nip and suck a rounded bruise, lick the hurt away before sucking smaller ones in a constellation, all the while having Jaskier cling and hump at him, and moan his pleasure loudly near his ear, knees hooking securely behind Geralt's own.

Feeling slightly lightheaded, Geralt grips at his hip bone with his right palm, his other still holding himself up, the rough edge of the tub a counterpoint to Jaskier's skin, too soft, always too soft, softer even than last time, what Geralt's memory of it has made it. Glancing between them, down Jaskier's chest, to where his hard cock bobs a few inches above the water, already leaking steadily, his mouth waters from one moment to another. It's too little like this. Not enough. He's wearing trousers, Jaskier's prick must be chafing against the laces on them when they thrust against each other, and Geralt's not doing much better constricted as he is. They could move it to the bed mere yards away. Have all this skin at his disposal without having to balance precariously in a tub. Could put his cock in Jaskier's mouth, could put his mouth on his.

Arching in his arms, Jaskier's hips buck against his, knees dragging upwards to tighten around the backs of his thighs, heels kicking at the underside of his arse. "Fuck me," he whines then into Geralt's ear, breathy, ending on a moan only partially for show. Genuine desperation in the crack of his voice.

His feet are mercifully bare, his toes curling freely from Jaskier's words. He rocks his hips back, and then forward into him once, before he relinquishes his hold on him to one-handedly unlace himself, his cock popping free on a sigh, Jaskier moaning at the sight where he's staring between them.

Geralt's back then curls forward while he grinds their hips together, slick and slippery. Nails dig into the skin at the column of his throat, above the collar. They scratch at the back of his neck. Half-moon shapes will surely bruise instantly, might draw pinpricks of thin blood, though Jaskier abandons his savage scrambling before they have a chance to. Geralt hisses at the wisps of pain anyway. Lets his cock slide against the thin skin at his groin, by Jaskier's hip bone near where his fingers have returned to grip at him, dragging through stray dark hair with water and pre-come slicking the way.

A panting and whimpering starts up from the back of Jaskier's throat, his hands clutching hard at Geralt's shoulders once more, stretching at the seams of his shirt, the cloth tightening in his fists. Buttons snap their twine, flying away to a dark corner of the room, or perhaps to sink at the bottom of their bathwater. Geralt could care less. Jaskier's body is too wrecked with want, and the sounds he's making, the feel and sight of him—it's all too much. They tie a knot in Geralt's stomach, and have his balls aching to spill.

"You're dripping," Jaskier breathlessly observes. Geralt doesn't have the current mental capacity to figure out whether he means Geralt's clothes or his cock, or maybe, in a truly facetious way only Jaskier could manage, both.

"And whose fault is that?" he mutters, only vaguely interested in a rejoinder, responding solely for the opportunity to listen to the timbre of Jaskier's outraged voice as he pouts, "I was having my _bath_." Posh consonants barely pushing through his mouth with a thready moan on their heels.

"I'll give you a proper washing." It's awful. Doesn't make sense even in Geralt's daze, but Jaskier seems to enjoy it given how his hips buck again and a low whine escapes the back of his throat.

True to his words and valiantly ignoring his aching cock, Geralt pulls back, pushing space between them which neither of them seem to appreciate. Before any protestations can occur, he handles Jaskier efficiently around, moving his limbs where he wants them as if they weighted nothing much at all, turning him around to kneel hesitantly in the tub, palms braced at the edge.

Any protests soon turn to implied assent, explicit invitation and more, as Jaskier curves his back, canting his hips back for better access, gaze fleeting as he glances over the crest of a shoulder for a long moment before he faces forwards. Over the sloshing sound of the water levelling out once more, Geralt can hear his wet panting. He has a clear view of his hard cock hanging between his legs, and, although he'd like nothing more than to reach for it and have Jaskier coming within seconds, he has other thoughts which have him almost drooling, if he were the sort to do so in his desperation.

As absurd as it may sound, Jaskier's hole is pretty. Downy hair circles around it, but the tender rose of it is appealing regardless. His fingers grasp a little too roughly to part his cheeks farther, enough to have his hole bared completely, twitching in the faint chill of the air once exposed. Geralt can't _not_ put his mouth on it now, not when it's beckoning him so. Tongue-first, he gets in close, licks at the tender skin around it before he lightly swipes over it, fills his head with Jaskier's sudden hiccupy moans. They drive him to fevered distraction before he gets his bearings to poke inside with the very tip of his tongue. The keening sounds echo off every wall around them, but neither cares.

"Fuck me," Jaskier repeats, each syllable broken in its own way. Geralt would protest that he _is_ , were his mouth not otherwise occupied with sucking around his hole, poking in and out with his tongue before he pushes it in as far as it'll go, Jaskier's limbs tensing suddenly before falling limply against the inside of the tub, hands barely hanging off the edges to keep himself vaguely upright, knees obviously shaking under him.

Breathing through his nose, he's assaulted with lavender and musk and fatty soap, and, underneath it all, Jaskier's skin, a deeper musk near his hole, overlaid with Geralt's spit. And he wants to put his cock inside, wants to do so dearly, over and over again, as many times as both can manage, perhaps more. Only Geralt can't hold off much longer, nor does he expect Jaskier to, either.

He leaves off, straightens his back, shoulders attempting to right themselves. His ears catch on protests in the form of feeble whines, before he presses his fingers into Jaskier's hips to hold him steady as he fucks his cock against the crease of his arse, over his hole, over and over again, allowing it to catch on his cockhead on every upstroke, pressing it idly in but stopping before it has the chance to actually enter. Jaskier is a slippery fish in his palms, pressing back when Geralt does, trying to stupidly fuck himself on Geralt's cock with only water and pre-come to draw him inside. Perhaps craving the ache, though it's never been to Geralt's taste.

Geralt takes pity of a sort on him soon enough, one hand reaching to grab at his slick prick, only to drag his fingers along the shaft merely a handful of times before Jaskier stiffens and comes in his arms, elbows rigid as he endeavours to hold himself steady against the tub and avoid face-planting into it.

They'll get to fuck properly later. All fucking night long. After another winter without, it's this thought which has Geralt spilling into the crease of Jaskier's arse, messing up his hole, dragging through the mess to his satisfaction.

Yes, they have all night for more.


End file.
